A sign.

I spent the day in Evansville, IN with my Momma and my Aunt Pam at a cousin's wedding.  Mom's told Pam the news, and we talked a lot of baby talk.  Pam said she feels good about this one and she'll say lots of prayers for us.  Good.  We'll take them all.

When I decided I was ready to head home, my front tire was flat. 

I wanted to cry. 

I was tired and hungry and hot and I just wanted to go home. 

But.  I had a can of Fix-A-Flat in my trunk, and that inflated the tire enough for me to get down the road to a Pep Boys, which was still open at 6:30 on a Saturday night and had a tire to sell me for just under $100. It was just under an hour from the time I discovered the flat until we were pulling out of the Pep Boys parking lot. 

Mom stayed with me the whole time.  She kept me from losing my shit.  I love my Momma so much. 

It felt lucky, that flat tire.  At least in retrospect.  It didn't blow in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, on a desolate stretch of I-64, when Momma and I would've had to sit in the sweltering heat on the side of the road probably for over an hour waiting for AAA to show up.  It didn't blow on my way home, when I was alone in the dark on that same empty stretch of highway.  Instead, it was flat, outside the church.  And I had Fix-A-Flat.  And Pep Boys was open.  And I had enough money in the bank to pay for a new tire without blinking.  (All that beer and cigarette money I've saved over the last few weeks, perhaps?)  A lucky girl, I am.

I decided to go back to the reception for a while longer, danced (poorly) with my cousins and my aunt, then hit the road for home around 10 o'clock. 

I spent most of the drive in silence, watching the white lines lead the way.  I thought about the latest Momastery article I'd read while waiting for my tire to be replaced.  I thought about how scared I am for our first appointment in less than 2 weeks.  I imagined what it could be like - lying in a dark room and hearing that sound I dream of, the sound of a heartbeat that Jimi and I made together.  I thought about Jimi, and his concern that his age could negatively impact our ability to have a healthy "normal" child.  How would we react if something was wrong?  What if our baby has an extra chromosome? 

I think we're going to be okay.  I started to let myself think that maybe we're going to be just fine. 

And then a car drove by, an SUV, with a vanity plate that read  OK PUSH. 

I'm taking it as a sign.  A doctor's gonna say that to me next February, and everything's going to be just fine. 

Every little thing, gonna be alright.